436 



RECREATION, 



Now he reels and gives ground, and I 

 can even see his pink belly uppermost, for 

 an instant; but he is away again, and 

 fighting gallantly, almost before I realize 

 he is down. At length he, the hero of a 

 hundred hard fought battles, the victor of 

 many a carefully planned campaign, lies 

 at my mercy, held captive by a cobweb bit 

 of silk. I gloat, but with discretion, 

 for I too clearly realize his capabilities. 

 Carefully reeling him in, I loose the land- 

 ing net and prepare for his reception. As 

 1 lean forward he makes a last desperate 

 plunge for freedom, and I, stepping at the 



same time on a rolling stone, lose my bal- 

 ance and sink on one knee. Without wait- 

 ing to rise I bring the butt to bear; but 

 it is useless. I knew it before I tried. 

 The old crusader is back again, under the 

 log, doubtless taking his rub-down. 



As I sadly unjoint and start down the 

 bypath to the old country road, along 

 whose borders the arbutus and sweet vel- 

 vet-hearts intermingle with maiden-hair 

 and wintergreen, my spirit chafes less and 

 less bitterly over its defeat, until I say to 

 myself that some day, perhaps, in the far 

 future, I may try him again. 



A SPRING TIME IDYL. 



A. L. VERMILYA. 



Johnny gets his pole of cedar, 



Gets some angle worms and fishhooks, 



Gets a pocketful of crackers, 



Speeds away across the meadow 



To the river in the woodland, 



There to catch the festive sucker, 



Pumpkinseed, or any other 



Giddy little fish that's longing 



To forsake the crystal water, 



To get out, and view the landscape. 



What to Johnny are mosquitos? 

 What the brambles, thorns and nettles? 

 What though his bare legs are smarting 

 From the sunburn and the scratches, 

 And the rag is lost from off the 

 Toe he stubbed on yester evening? 

 He is fishing, fishing, fishing, 

 All the world is right before him, 

 All its glory and its grandeur 

 Center on the winding river. 

 Where the willows nod and flutter 

 And the bull-frogs boom and bellow. 



Let the gilded city sportsman 

 With his fancy rod and tackle. 

 Landing net and creel of canvas. 

 Play a six-inch trout a half-hour 

 Or a quarter longer, may be, 

 Ere he scoops it from the water; 

 He can never know the pleasure, 

 Never know the exultation 

 That thrills all of Johnny's being, 

 As he yanks a perch or sunfish 

 Out upon the bank beside him; 

 Hooks it on his willow stringer 

 With his other finny prizes. 



Slowly rolls the sun in grandeur 

 On its journey to the zenith. 

 Then toward the far horizon 

 Downward glides in softened glory 

 To'rd the West, the magic Westland; 

 And as o'er the hills and tree tops 

 Softly fades its light and lustre. 

 Slowly melts the orb in splendor, 

 In the purple clouds of sunset. 



Then, as o'er the hills and valleys, 

 Through the woods and down the river, 

 Steal the dusky shades of evening, 

 Like the ghosts of days departed. 

 Like the ghosts of vanished summers, 

 Johnny slowly trudges homeward. 

 Tired and hungry, but more happy 

 Than a lordling of the manor; 

 For he carries on a stringer, 

 On a pliant willow stringer, 

 Perch and sunfish, bass and suckers 

 And such other giddy fishes 

 As, dissatisfied with water. 

 Longed to gaze upon the landscape; 

 While his pockets bulge with treasure?, 

 Little turtles, shells and pebbles; 

 Treasures dear to boys like Johnny, 

 In the days of sunny childhood. 



And his father smiles serenely 

 On our youthful Izaak Walton; 

 Looks the laddie's fishes over 

 Says, and saying beams with pleasure, 

 "Bless the boyf he's like his father! 

 Loves the river and the wildwood. 

 And the balmy days of springtime. 

 He will be a loyal sportsman. 

 Yes, a noble hearted sportsman; 

 Loving all the works of Nature. 

 All her glory and her grandeur." 



